Off
by oh-mother-of-darkness
Summary: Tim is the only one who knows that Bruce is still alive.


Tim didn't wake up when his alarm went off, but that was because he had never gone to sleep. He'd been listening to the ceiling fan clicking as it turned. It was a small sound, but he couldn't tune it out, so he stared into space instead: click, click, click, until the buzzing from his phone jolted the rhythm away. He let it vibrate for five deep breaths, then fumbled underneath his pillow.

6:30— Get out of bed

Tim rolled upright, shoving away the twisted pile of blankets. Five breaths. Feet on the floor. Stand up. Alarm off. His arm didn't hurt as much as he expected, all things considered. It could take most of his weight while he leaned against the wall. He held still, forehead pressed against the paint, until the phone in his hand began to buzz again.

6:35— Brush your teeth

Right. Eight steps to the bathroom door. Toothbrush. Faucet on. Alarm off. It took time to find his toothpaste; he had thrown it at the mirror sometime the night before. That was fine. The cap had been on. He could replace the broken glass, and it hadn't fallen out of the frame, just cracked in a silver bullseye around the impact point.

That was interesting. He stared at the lines for as long as he was allowed.

6:40— Brush your hair

Yeah, he needed to do that. The back half had dried funny, but at least it wasn't stiff with blood anymore.

6:45— Get dressed

He was glad one suit had survived the weekend. The rest were scattered in pieces on the dresser top and floor. It was the kind of thing that Alfred would have taken care of if Tim hadn't taken to locking his doors, but he had. And Alfred hadn't forced his way in yet.

6:50— Eat

Half-pack of peanut butter crackers. Abandoned cup of coffee. That was close enough, right? It was close enough.

6:55— Go to work

Tim had heard Dick come in hours ago, not long enough to be awake yet. Alfred would be in his room. Cass hadn't resurfaced since she left. The house should be empty, and if it wasn't, if there was anyone _else_ wandering around it, then—

He would cross that bridge when he got to it. Angry felt good, Tim thought, because at least anger was something. He had a right to be angry, didn't he? If Damian thought he was any different than the rest of them just because Bruce… because Bruce was his father…

Bruce was Tim's father.

Bruce…

Anger was something. It made Tim feel like ripping apart his room, like destroying his possessions, like kicking his desk and breaking his mirrors, but at least it made him feel. When it was gone, he stared at walls. The words left his brain. He couldn't think.

At 7:02, Tim noticed that his phone was still buzzing on his dresser. Go to work. He was supposed to go to work. Backpack. Open window. Alarm off.

Dick didn't believe him. Why didn't Dick believe him?

Bruce…

Bruce was alive. Tim was sure, but Dick didn't believe him. There should be emotion behind that train of thought, but it had worn away days ago, back when Tim was throwing things and yelling. It wasn't that he didn't care anymore, because he did. It was just that doing anything was hard while he was empty.

Looking back on it, it was funny that he had been so excited. Tim remembered sprinting down the hallway, yelling Dick's name because Bruce was alive! They were going to be okay! Dick's eyes would light up when he told him, he imagined— first relief as the weight of responsibility fell off his back, and then joy, and then determination as he started to plan how they would find Bruce and bring him back. Tim had ideas. They could do it together.

It hadn't gone that well. There had been a few seconds, maybe three of them, where there had been hope in Dick's eyes, but that vanished as soon as Tim explained why he was happy again. Bruce was alive! He was lost in time! Tim knew it sounded ridiculous, but listen, he could prove it, really!

Dick's eyes flashed hope, disappointment, concern. "Tim…" It had gone downhill from there.

Dick thought that Tim was delusional, that his theory was a coping mechanism. He tried to let Tim down gently, but that didn't matter. He just… didn't believe it.

7:30— Department summaries

8:15— Check your email

8:35— Call Lucius

There was a break after that, so Tim lay down on the couch in his office and listened to the air conditioning switch on and off.

9:20— R&D update

10:00— Audit committee

11:00— Investor relations

12:00— External reporting

The second time was worse. Tim found Dick sitting at the kitchen table before sunrise, staring out the windows. He hadn't been sleeping either. They talked about Alfred and the funeral service and Batman's legacy. If Bruce was really dead—

"If?"

"I told you. He's still alive."

"And he's lost in time."

"You say that like you think it's impossible."

"Not impossible. Just unsupported."

"I can find the evidence."

"Tim." Dick put a hand on his shoulder as gently as he could, like he was waiting for Tim to crack at any moment. "We buried his body. I get that this is hard, but…"

"I'm not in denial."

"I didn't say you were."

"Well don't. I'm not."

"It's not irrational to look for answers when you're used to finding them."

"I'm not making this up, Dick. I'm seeing things because the trail is there. We can find him."

Dick pulled his hand back. "Have you thought about talking to Leslie?"

"Alfred already looked at my arm."

"She could refer you to a psychologist."

Oh. Tim shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Okay." Dick went back to staring out the window again, like he had already moved on. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

12:45— Cash flow statements

1:00— Construction sites

Tim heard Dick and Alfred talking about him in the cave after that, when they thought he had already left. "Hell, maybe we're the crazy ones…"

Crazy. Right. Dick thought he was crazy. Tim was just a little kid that had lost too many people. He was falling apart, and he was chasing shadows, and there was no need to take him seriously.

3:00— Board meeting

4:30— Internal reporting

5:00— Budget

5:50— Memos

Bruce was alive, and it wasn't because Tim wanted him to be. There was evidence. Tim saw it. He hadn't imagined the picture in the portrait hall. He wasn't projecting his experience with Stephanie. It was all real.

Wasn't it?

6:00— Go home

Tim knew what it looked like, really, he did. He could see Dick's angle. He could understand why Alfred didn't make eye contact with him anymore. He knew that they thought they were being helpful.

They weren't helping. Tim was right. He was right, and they weren't listening, and he was _right,_ and didn't they remember who they were talking to? Tim was smart. He was experienced, a detective, and he knew evidence when he saw it.

They wouldn't even hear him out. What did he do to make Dick stop trusting him? Tim had yelled that across the dining room last night while they were screaming at each other, right before he smashed the mirror in his bathroom and broke the legs off his desk.

He didn't feel like breaking things anymore.

6:45— Eat

He wasn't hungry. He pulled a handful of cereal out of the box in the pantry and wandered back into his room.

7:00— Change bandages

7:05— Update maps

7:45— Check weapons

There was a spare costume in a duffel bag on his floor. At least he still had Robin. At least he was still good for something.

There was nothing to do after that, so Tim lay down on his bed again. The clicking from the ceiling fan didn't seem as loud when the light was on. He felt… numb. There should have been emotions— he knew he should be feeling— but all he could be was tired.

He laid awake and watched the fan turning.

8:45— Get dressed

Five deep breaths. Feet on the floor. Stand up. Alarm off. Tim dug his costume out of the duffel bag. One of his boots was missing; it must be somewhere in the mess from his closet. He kicked aside a pile of crumpled tshirts and found it half-hidden under one of the desk drawers he had thrown against the wall. Finished. He was halfway out the window when he heard someone knocking at his door.

Fine. He would have to talk to Dick eventually, and he might as well get it over with. Tim pulled the door open, self-conscious about exposing the mess in his room, but that was ridiculous. Dick slept down the hall. He must have heard it when things started breaking.

"Hey," Dick said. "I just wanted to apologize for losing my temper. That was a mistake."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Do you want a hand cleaning up?"

"No thanks. I can do it."

"Okay."

Tim stared down at the floor. "I still think he's alive."

"Okay."

"You don't have to believe me."

"Yeah."

"I just wish you would."

"Yeah." Dick shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I think…" Tim trailed off, wishing he could tell Dick about the ceiling fan and the numbness and the list in his pocket of all the alarms he needed to set for tomorrow— the way he couldn't move unless there were instructions. He hadn't slept in two days, and he wasn't hungry. He wasn't anything except tired and heavy and blank.

And he couldn't tell Dick— couldn't tell anyone— because that would prove their point. Yeah, Tim was falling apart. That didn't make him wrong.

"I think I need to leave for awhile."

"That might not be the best idea."

"Why?"

"You need help."

Tim almost laughed at that. He was standing in the splintered pile of wood that used to be his desk, so it wasn't exactly subtle. "Obviously. Help me."

"How?"

Tim took a deep breath. "Help me find—"

"He's dead, Tim."

Tim slammed the door in Dick's face as hard as he could, turning the lock behind him. That wasn't subtle either. It wouldn't stop Dick from coming in if he really wanted to, but Tim didn't think he would try. He flopped back onto his bed as Dick's footsteps stormed back down the hallway.

9:00— Set alarms

Five deep breaths. Ten. Fifteen. Tim was supposed to set the alarms. He wouldn't leave his bed if he didn't.

So what? Tim switched off his phone and threw it into the pile of tshirts on his floor. So what. He would have to give up eventually. It might as well be now.


End file.
